The rest of the trip passes uneventfully, but with my mind working in overdrive - a default setting, unfortunately - it simultaneously becomes stressful. Thus, once my two feet are finally atop the carpeted corridor in front of room H2, I am more than relieved - as well as more than exhausted.

I roll my suitcase in and slide off my shoes with a sigh. Quorra walks in behind me, lugging her bag which sporadically tangles itself between her legs due to its rather awkward height setting.

Hang on.

"Quorra, is that my bag?" I question, turning my head to the side as her body hides it from view.

She seems confounded, "No, it's- oh...

Hey, is this your bag?"

Fatigue withering my attention span down, I brush the matter aside and sit down on the foot of my bed, falling back on the covers and welcoming the comfort of the airy duvet. It's as if stress has become more of an energy sink than physical activity. I should feel guilty after demanding improvement in Quorra's lifestyle and then being a total hypocrite, but I'm just relieved that she's at least enjoying a better quality of life.

Well, she was until he came and fucked things up. Ever since his arrest, she's been desperately projecting an image of plastic glee: as if my ears stop functioning at night and I can't hear her when the lights are out. As ironic as it is, she's just pretending to be a happy camper - and everyone believes her but me. Can no-one else see the fragility in her gaze?

I glance over at my duplicitous angel, who sits on the side of my bed and has fallen quiet. She fiddles with her fingers in her lap, eyes full of nothing and the whole world at the same time. With half-closed eyes, I watch her for a moment.

I take note of the unpredictable rhythm of her breathing and the nervous fidgeting she does without realising, the flutter of her eyelashes and the tongue which darts out every two seconds to wet her bottom lip, her upturned eyebrows as she ponders over her latest source of suffering.

She catches me a second later, the turmoil in her eyes melting away and her hands pausing their fiddling. A soft pink hue dusts itself across her cheeks.

"Sorry," she mumbles, as if she's committed a crime.

Feet completely dead, I settle for leaning up on my elbows to get closer to her.

If only it were that easy.

"You are undeniably difficult to figure out, Quorra Neversea," I state, only deepening the confused expression worn by the broken girl in front of me, "But not quite undecipherable."

She smiles, as if catching onto a joke, "Oh, so you have me all figured out, do you, Professor Hartley?" she questions, "So what fascinating conclusion have you come to?"

I pretend to ponder deeply over my reply, "You're delusional."

Her smile drops in synchronisation with her eyebrow raising.

"Excuse me, mister? If you think that's earning you anything tonight, you're sorely mistaken."

Immediately, I can't help the surprised, breathy laugh from escaping me. She never fails to shock me with her antics.

"What on earth are you insinuating, Quorra?" I ask rhetorically, before turning serious, "And I mean that you're delusional if you think a few sheets of polyester and the air of the campsite will stop me from hearing you in your tent at night."

I catch the one-shade difference in her skin tone as she swallows before slapping on a half-hearted smile, "Well, that seems more an innuendo than mine."

I blink at her, unimpressed.

She sighs.

"Fine. There have been tears. Big deal. What's your point?" she scowls, growing defensive at my analysing gaze that constantly searches her features for insincerity.

"The big deal," I start, disapprovingly tugging her down to lay beside me, "Is that you're hurting and you aren't telling me. You don't have to pretend, Quorra. At, least, not in front of me."

Her smiles completely falters as she settles her head in the junction between my neck and shoulder. We bask in the silence for a while: the only comfortable one I've ever been in.

"I know, but if I pretend that I'm okay maybe I'll be able to fool myself."

I'm crushed by her confession.

With a weighted heart, I stroke my fingers along her arm, hoping to provide some kind of comfort.

As we bathe in each other's presence, I realise that I've never done this before. I've never met someone I thought actually wanted to spend time with me. I've never found someone I might want to have a romantic relationship with. In my rebellious teen years (which even I couldn't escape, as much as Quorrra refuses to believe), I went out and slept with people I shouldn't have, but I've never been around someone I actually missed when they were gone.

Well, I hadn't, before Quorra. And of course, my happiness needs to be masked because we are in the most complex situation I could ever dream of.

"What are we doing?" I mumble into the open air, but mainly to myself.

Quorra stops tracing distracting circles on my abdomen with her hand, "Huh? We're lying down."

"No, I meant in general. I'm feel sorry for you that we can't do normal things that normal... couples do."

She seems unfazed and instead cracks a smile, "Who said we're a couple? We just tease each other a lot and then make out."

I disregard the wiggle of her eyebrows and forcefully push her head back into my neck to drown out her goofiness, "Well whatever we are, I'm sorry."

Quorra laughs, a sound I've grown to cherish, "Are you apologising for us dating? Dude, I'm fine with it. More than fine with it - I've secured a hot boyfriend. Never thought that would happen."

I remain silent, not deeming myself normal enough to judge her for her quirks.

● qυorra neverѕea ●

I finish off my sentence, feeling the protest in my aching fingers as I set my biro down and lean back in my chair with a satisfied exhale. I squint my eyes to glance at the time on my phone, the screen blindingly bright in comparison to the dim room.

The door open moments later.

A tired Slater walks in, setting his briefcase down at the foot of his bed and running his hand through his hair for the thousandth time today (I assume, given the current tousled state of it). His eyebrows are turned up and a troubled look resides on his face - more troubled than usual. It isn't his oh-my-god-I'm-teaching-a-bunch-of-irreversible-idiots expression, but a seriously grave one.

"What's wrong?" I ask, flipping my folder shut as my voice shatters the fragile silence.

He doesn't respond for a long while, inhaling deeply and sitting down at the edge of his bed. His eyes refuse to meet mine, switching from object to object as he struggles to compile an audible sentence.

"I... overheard something in class," he begins, emotional turmoil uncharacteristically blatant in his gaze as he finally meets my worried one.

Loathing the solemn look on his face that scarcely ever appears, I close the gap between us and sit down next to him, hands nervously locked together in my lap. He bows his head into his hands, as if my presence makes the unknown situation tenfold worse.

"Slater, what is it?" I ask, resting a tentative hand on his leg and trying to decipher what his expression means.

"It's all my fault. I knew this would happen, yet my idiocy overshadowed any logic in my mind," he finally breaks his silence, head shaking as if he is stuck in his own world, "It's entirely my fault."

I squint at him, completely lost, "Slater, what did you overhear?"

He lays a hand over mine and brings it up to his chest, his grip almost painful.

"Don't panic," he states, restlessness merging with... fear? "Promise you won't panic."

I give him a flat look and answer truthfully, "Well if it's bad enough that you are panicking, then I probably will."

That wasn't what he wanted to hear judging by the look on his face. I pull my hand out of his grip and tilt my head at him as he adamantly repeats himself.

"Fine, I promise," I comply, before admitting, "Slater, you're scaring me. What is it?"

He sighs, and glances over at me as if it's the last second I'll be alive.

"I overheard Miss Jameson talking in the corridor on my way back." he begins, "One of her friends was talking about how much she hated my lectures because I always keep her behind. Miss Jameson replied saying that it wouldn't matter anymore, because she has a photo from the lake trip that will ruin me as soon as it gets to Mr Lincoln's father."

My blood runs cold.

"But-"

"There's only one incriminating thing I've done on that trip, Quorra."

I look down at my lap.

"I need to go talk to him before he finds out through his son."

He's out the door before I can utter a syllable.

◎granт lιncoln◎

"You've got a visitor."

I look up at the containment cell door instantly, meeting the gaze of the bulky guard. He unlocks the rattly gate and swings it open.

"My father?" I ask, getting up from the cold stone bench and hurrying towards the exit.

I take the gruff noise in the back of his throat as a yes, and follow him down the corridor. Two other guards appear and surround me as we walk towards the front room. With every step, my hunger for vengeance grows, pushing a smirk onto my face as soon as I see my father, clad in a grey suit and waiting for me to sit down in front of him.

The guards stay a few steps back as I take a seat in front of him, snatching his attention from the watch on his left wrist.

"Grant," he greets, straightening his suit.

I nod in greeting, "Father."

"You wanted me to come," he states truthfully, "I have a meeting soon with the professors of Harrow. Can we make this quick?"

I try to repress the feeling of neglect and hurt that threatens to arise, maintaining my smug expression as I reply, "Of course, dearest daddy."

He is clearly irked by my usual disrespectful tone, but I brush it aside and lean forward, closer to the glass barrier that separates us and lowering my voice, "What would you say if one of the teachers at your very own university was found to be breaking your policy? The very policy read and signed by every single person present at Harrow?"

His irritation melts away into interest and fury, "Why of course I would fire their asses and ban them from ever setting foot in my uni again."

I smile.

"As expected. Now listen carefully," I hold his gaze, "Go home and find my laptop. Log into my emails and check the latest draft. There's an attachment. Open it."

He's baffled by my cryptic instructions, but nods slowly and gets up. If escaping his disappointment-of-a-son's presence wasn't enough motivation to leave, my mysterious claims certainly are.

"I'll be leaving now. Goodbye, Grant," he confirms, glancing at his watch momentarily and grabbing the briefcase he brought with him.

Seconds later, he's disappeared, leaving nothing but thin air in his wake.

You will get what you deserve, Slater Hartley.

Just you wait.

●（=｀～'=） ●

This was ready to go yesterday evening but Wattpad was under maintenance and didn't allow me to upload. Sorry, guys!

This is clearly rushed and sucks arse but let's pretend everything is fine because this is the first update of 2018...

Woot woot.

What's gonna happen next?

Love you guys xox
Over and out,
Spud 🥔